The clear harmonic cry
Every now and then a clear harmonic cry gave new suggestions of a tune that would someday be the only tune in the world and would raise men’s souls to joy.”
– Jack Kerouac, On the Road
The music flows in and out of your senses as easily as the sweat raises your skin. What you perceive is slowed by the lush heat, and the music pricks the vitals of your brain, emboldens the reptilian essence, sways, rocks, lifts up and you have no control. A woman sways next to you. A child stands rooted to the earth, not certain what human is, how to become a man, when the thump of the tuba and the skirling cries of the trumpet turns his little body into a kicking, thrashing, joyful tumble.
When you walk on it’s into the fade. Sound soften. What inside you is changed will be indelible and ill-defined. Don’t worry, walker, the music won’t own you, but you can’t disown it.